San Francisco
by oh sailor
Summary: It's been nearly ten years since Veruca graduated high school, years since she thought of her classmates. Until a meeting in San Francisco threatens everything.


**San Francisco**

**Rating: T**

**A/N: Hello all! After a VERY long time away, I have returned. I have mostly been concentrating on original works this year, but I just visited a week ago to check out some of my favorite stories and became inspired to write a little more of LM fiction. This is Veruca-centric, which is fun because it's almost like an original character. Margolee, an OC, is a little outrageous, but I hope you enjoy her. She's fun to read. This is in a bit of a different style than I usually use, I hope you like it and if you don't then tell me please! As always, reviews are appreciated. **

o o o o o

She lingers for a moment at the curb, a little unsure if she wants to call a cab or walk. It's not that far to her house-only a fifteen minute walk, but the night is warm and her dress is already clinging heavily to her damp skin. She leans against the wall, light from the theater spilling around her heavy frame as the trilling voice of a gaudy soprano diffuses through her mind.

She knows the words to the song, and she hums a little as she slides her stocking clad feet out of the black shoes, on sale at Bloomingdales' for $48.95. "Let the dance floor fill your leather, step as lightly as a feather, let yourself go." she sings into the quiet summer night. Her voice echoes quietly, and it suddenly occurs to Veruca Leilanna Stuckerman how alone she is on this dark night in California.

Voices fill her eardrums, the theater doors are flung open, and a skinny blonde twenty-something scurries across the boardwalk and throws her gangly arms around Veruca.

"Veruca, my darling." Margolee cries dramatically, adjusting her purse, "However are you?"

Veruca shrugs. She hates questions like that: they merit an interesting answer that she does not possess.

"How was the concert?" she asks, linking her arm through Margolee's and changing the subject subtly.

"Oh, it was dreadful." Margolee says dramatically, flinging her head back and skipping down the boardwalk, tugging Vercuca behind her like an old doll. Margolee doesn't belong in San Francisco: Manhattan, perhaps, or Chicago or Los Angeles. She wasn't built for boardwalks and food vendors and tourists wearing flip flops and Bermuda shorts. Margolee never wears shorts of any kind: she thinks they lack class and feminine charm.

"Kristen Chenoweth was fabulous though." Margolee muses, breaking into Veruca's thoughts with her melodic voice, so devoid of anything but complete happiness. "It's such a pity you couldn't get tickets."

Vercua shrugs, tucking a strand of frizzy red hair behind her ears. "I hate concerts Margie, you know that."

It was true-Veruca does hate concerts. She despises dressing up in her unstylish black dress and sitting in the balcony with the air conditioning on too high, while people sing songs that she doesn't like. Margolee didn't understand-she went to the theater because she was _cultured_ and _cultured_ people went to concerts.

Margolee frowns, her sculpted eyebrows meeting in a firm line across her ivory skin. "Don't call me Margie." She says angrily, folding her thin arms across her non-existent breasts. "It's common."

"Whatever." Veruca sighs, turning slightly away from Margolee and beginning the trek up the boardwalk, towards the collection of apartment complexes and bright traffic lights. She is tired, and sad, and lonely. Margolee is exhausting at best, and Veruca wonders briefly why she always picks people who make her feel deflated. She is just Veruca Stuckerman, another slightly overweight red haired twenty eight year old in a city full of slightly overweight twenty eight year olds. There is nothing that separates her from anyone else, other than the fact that she is Veruca Stuckerman, and she is walking with a borderline anorexic named Margolee Gray.

Not much of an achievement.

Margolee pauses for a moment, swaying slightly in her four inch heels as she looks at Veruca with puzzlement and disappointment. She leans against the railing overlooking the water, and although her face is turned away, Veruca can imagine her look of displeasure as she stares at the dim lights of the ferris wheel. Margolee does not appreciate responses such as 'whatever.'

After a moment, Margolee speaks again. "Aren't you going to call a cab? Your clothes will get all sweaty."

"Nah." Veruca says, tossing her hair over her shoulder and smiling inwardly at Margolee's expression of horror. "It's too expensive, and I only live ten minutes away."

"Fine." Snaps Margolee, flinging her blonde hair back with one bony hand. "But if you ruin your dress and get gang raped by surfers in the process, don't expect me to pay for your therapist. Mine is expensive enough."

With that, the cab pulls up and Margolee steps gracefully inside (she never slides) and directs the driver in the direction of the posh beach houses away from the blinding lights of the skate park and all-night clubs.

Veruca smiles tiredly as the headlights fade before continuing the slow climb towards her apartment. The night gets heavier, her thick hair is stuck to the back of her neck, and she wrinkles her nose with distaste as the slightly pungent scent of sweat mingled with her vanilla deodorant reaches her nostrils. Maybe she should have taken Margolee's offer for the cab.

Veruca shakes her head and crosses the boardwalk, entering the street, where she is swallowed by the dark of the night.

o o o o o o o

It is far past one AM when Veruca clumsily pushes her key into the lock and stumbles inside her musty apartment. In the dark, she trips over something soft and mutters "Shit!" as a furious meow sounds from under her feet. Dumping her keys in a bowl on the hall table, she flicks on the light just in time to see her cat disappearing into the kitchen. She follows it and sits gingerly at the table, sipping a cup of cold coffee and thumbing through the mail that has accumulated over several days. The white cat, called Monaco, leaps into her lap, leaving tiny white hairs across the front of Veruca's dress. The cat had been a present from Margolee for Veruca's twenty sixth birthday, because Margolee felt that Veruca lacked companionship.

"Besides." She had said airily as Veruca stared in puzzlement at the white fluff ball on her bedroom floor, "If you insist on becoming a spinster, you need some practice with cats. Honestly Veruca, do you ever plan on getting married?"

"Why should I get married?" Veruca had countered, "You're twenty three and already divorced."

"Yes, darling. But my husband was a cheating scoundrel who couldn't deal with the fact that I eat slightly less than he does. Anyways, I work better single. But, you Veruca are the settling down type. You need someone. I prefer to play with men."

Veruca rolled her eyes at Margolee and stroked the cat's soft ears. "I guess I'll name her Emily." She said to break the silence.

"Oh no, I've already named her." Margolee sang happily. "Her name's Monaco and she's already registered so don't think about changing her name. Monaco is an exciting place, Veruca. You should make your life a little less dreary and live up to the name of your cat."

"Alright Margolee." Veruca said with a sigh. There was really no point in arguing with Margolee about anything.

"Well, I'm off to tae bo. I've gained three pounds, so I'm being very serious about my exercising. Ta ta."

And with that she was gone.

"I guess we'll just have to stay boring, Monaco." Veruca muses as she comes to the end of the pile of mail. Her fingers hesitate on a plain white envelope with _Hillridge High School_ emblazoned across the front. She had hoped it was a joke, she had hoped that they had finally decided to stop sending her those ridiculous invitations for high school reunions. Maybe they would get the hint that after nine years of not attending, she was most likely not going to be at the damn reunion.

Obviously she is mistaken.

Veruca rips open the envelope and reads the loopy script aloud,

"You are cordially invited to the Hillridge Class of 1996 ten year reunion. Hillridge High School, June 15th, 2006…_fuck_." Veruca scowls as she throws down the paper and storms into her bathroom. Flicking on the light, she stares at herself in the floor length mirror that is attached to the back of the door. Five feet five inches tall, with long red hair that is slightly damp from summer sweat. The black dress is awkward on her chubby figure, her face round and pale. The brown eyes have not changed since high school, except for the fine lines at the corners. Her lips are thin, the lipstick too bright. She is not beautiful yet, she is not wonderful yet. She is the same as she was in high school: the unremarkable chubby girl with the red hair.

Veruca does not think about high school anymore. Only for the first year of college, she did. She thought about Ethan Craft, and Lizzie McGuire, and David Gordon. She thought about Kate Sanders and Claire Miller, who had been so cruel to her. She wondered what they were doing, she prayed that they would never find her. And when the invitation for the reunion had come in the mail, she had dressed up in a green dress and gone to the school. Parking a block away, she waited in the shadows and watched everyone go past her. There was Miranda Sanchez, tall and gangly and beautiful. There was Kate-gorgeous and demanding, dragging Ethan by his arm. And then…Veruca's heart had stopped. There was Lizzie McGuire and David Gordon. Together. Of course.

They were a little bit older, a little more mature. But here was her high school-here was her senior year. Veruca fled. Now, she stands in her bathroom at the age of twenty eight and thinks of her classmates for the first time in nine years. Standing in her bathroom, she feels exactly the way she felt at eighteen when she stood in a bathroom in someone else's house and watched the beginning of the end of her happiness. She hadn't known it at the time (who could have?) but she should have seen it coming. The scent of alcohol was heavy in the air, drunken teenagers dancing to the melody of freedom. At last, they were going to be free. At last they were Getting Out of Here to Become Something and be Important and Successful. They all were sure they were going to Make It. Who needs insurance on happiness? Behind Veruca came the scent of aftershave and beer, there was a hand on her shoulder, and David Gordon smiled his sad half smile and said, "Hey."

She had cracked a smile, leaning against the wall and smiling at him with what she hoped was sex appeal. Who cared what everyone thought? She was eighteen and being talked to by Lizzie McGuire's boyfriend. She could do as she pleased.

"Excited to be getting out?" she asked.

"Sure." He said dully, taking a sip from his red plastic cup and scanning the room furtively. "Where are you going to college?"

"UCLA." She said with a smile. "I, uh, was hoping to get into computer graphics and animation. I always really liked that game Dwarflord, and maybe someday I could make a video game or something."

"Dwarflord?" he said incredulously, no doubt feeling embarrassed about his infatuation with the game in seventh grade. That is, until Lizzie and Miranda had captured him and force fed him curly fries. They were always doing stuff like that-interfering with Gordo's life.

"What about you? Are you still going to film school?"

"No." Gordo sighed. "My parents want me to go to pre-law at Yale. Then I'll graduate and marry Lizzie and have two perfect children that I never see, because I'll be settling other people's disputes so we can live in our perfect house together." he paused. "Why am I telling you this? I think I've had way too much to drink."

Veruca laughed, warmth bubbling through her. She had always appreciated Gordo's honesty.

"Gordo, I'm sorry you're not going to film school. I know how good at it you are." She said awkwardly, unable to think of anything else to say.

"Whatever. It's not like not loving what you do is the end of the world." Gordo muttered. "I get to be the American fucking Dream. Blonde girlfriend added."

"Lizzie loves you, Gordo." Veruca said quietly. "I don't know her very well, but she tries. And I'm sure she loves you."

"Yeah. I know she does. And I love her too." He sighed. "Why have we never talked Veruca? Who needs Jiminy Cricket when you can talk to a random girl from middle school that you used to play Dwarflord with?"

Veruca laughed. "Gosh Gordo, I don't know. Maybe because we're on opposite ends of the social universe? You are in LA. I live in the slums of Africa."

"Very funny." He said. "Veruca…"

But he never finished his sentence, because up the stairs ran Lizzie McGuire, Kate in tow. Veruca remembers how her blonde hair was perfectly curled, her pink dress' sparkles catching the light. Veruca remembers how she had tugged at her blue skirt, feeling fat and ugly. Even at the age of eighteen, Lizzie McGuire was able to make her feel utterly hideous.

"Gordo! Oh my god, I've been looking for you, like, everywhere! Amy is chair dancing, and no one can make her stop. Can you please come get her before someone figures out what cameras are for?" she paused for breath and noticed Veruca. "Hey Veruca, having fun?"

But before Veruca could answer, Lizzie and Gordo were rushing down the stairs towards the cheering partygoers.

Veruca Stuckerman and David Gordon didn't speak again.

Graduation was a hot and dismal event. The air conditioning in the gym broke, and three hundred and fifty teenagers sat in strained silence on the bleachers. Maybe they were finally realizing that this was It. Whatever the reason, no one acted out: no catcalls or whoopee cushions were produced when Ms. Ungermeyer stepped up to the podium. Larry Tudgeman gave the valedictorian address, complete with his unwashed hair and trademark green and white polo shirt peeking out from under his robes while Gordo sulked in the front.

No one had screamed for her when her name was called. Veruca's mother was at AA as usual. "You understand, right honey?" she'd said as Veruca came downstairs that morning. "It's all about sticking with the program."

Veruca had attended the after party at the Hillridge Hilton for a few hours, before she left for her house.

She did not stick around for the summer, instead heading directly to Los Angeles to move into her dorm room. The year started, her mother got married in December and divorced in April.

Life went on, and Veruca ceased to think about high school, and Gordo and what he might have said to her had Lizzie not interrupted.

Now she stands in her bathroom and entertains the possibility of returning to Hillridge. Could she do it? Could she leave Margolee and her job and her cat and go back to Hillridge? Veruca knows that she must choose-she cannot have both worlds. She leaves the bathroom and lights a cigarette, a habit she adopted in college in the hopes of drastic weight loss.

Veruca sits on her balcony and exhales towards the ocean, just as she did at the age of fifteen when her cousin brought pot over. She remembers how they stood pressed together on her bathtub, taking turns breathing out the window. There's no one to reprimand her from filling her lungs with toxins, but she feels that she needs to hide her casual habit all the same. Her house does not need to smell of smoke.

The telephone rings and she swears, answering with a tired hello. Of course it's Margolee, who never gives a thought that people might not need sleep because she herself does not. "It's a waste of my time." She scoffs. Who needs sleep? Slackers, that's who. Margolee refuses to associate herself with people who have needs.

"Veruca, I forgot to tell you that we're meeting for breakfast tomorrow. Eight AM."

"We are?" Veruca asks tiredly. Margolee never asks people to meet, she tells them that they're meeting her.

"Yes, of course. The Bell Jar, as usual. Goodbye, stop sulking over your reunion invitation." The line clicks and goes dead. How does Margolee always know when Veruca is sulking?

She returns to her table and picks up the invitation once again, wincing as Monaco jumps into her lap.

"Well Monaco, what should I do?"

The cat purrs.

"I'll go, and then I'll stop thinking about them. Margolee would be proud."

Monaco cocks her head, pretending to understand and waiting to see what will happen next.

_Yes_. Veruca thinks, lighting another cigarette and causing the cat to run away in distaste. She will go to breakfast with Margolee. She will go to work. And then she will choose a world to inhabit.


End file.
